


acoustic.

by phantomxanthem



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Friends With Benefits, I promise it'll earn the M eventually, M/M, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Rey/Kylo Ren, Virgin Ben Solo, Virgin Kylo Ren, Watch out this is probably going to be a dumpster fire, stormpilot in the background
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22020379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomxanthem/pseuds/phantomxanthem
Summary: Kylo Ren is the cold, unfeeling Head of Operations of First Order Records, a major record label comprising many of the country's top emerging artists. Rey Skye, a young singer-songwriter who struggles to pay the bills, would give anything to get his attention.She does, but not in the way she means to.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Poe Dameron/Finn, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	acoustic.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks, welcome to my second attempt at writing Reylo! This was a spontaneous idea that I'm hoping will turn into something worthwhile.
> 
> Comments and feedback are much appreciated; I'm super new to this and would be grateful for any suggestions for how to improve going forward. :)
> 
> There may be a rating change and various content warnings may come to apply as I narrow down the plot more finely, but this and the first few chapters start off pretty innocently, I think. Kylo is an angst lord, though. For reasons.
> 
> Anyway, here goes nothing.

Kylo Ren did not like the day that he was having.

Typically he kept his anger to himself, taking it out upon the large sandbag that hung from the ceiling of his second garage. The door to the detached structure faced a large wooded area behind his dwelling, so that even if it was left wide open to allow the breeze to tickle the beads of sweat that were apt to gather on his brow after a longer session, he still managed to enjoy a degree of privacy as he swang, again and again, pounding his day’s frustrations into the lifeless dangling apparatus. The walls of that garage had heard far more swears and cries of frustration than he had ever let on in front of a colleague or client - in fact, he was known for his stoic expression and overall composure even in heated situations - and if his built, muscular upper body was any indication of the time he spent carrying out his angry workouts, that amounted to a  _ lot _ of swears and cries of frustration.

Today, however, he struggled to keep his usual impassive mask pasted across his angular face, and he ran a hand through his jet-black shoulder-length hair as those features became sharper, more expressive, and decidedly  _ very _ angry. “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he spat.

Suddenly self-conscious of his outburst, he scanned his surroundings to make sure he had not gathered any unwanted attention, but the other patrons of Alliance Burgers, a shoddy lunchtime joint near his office that was known for combo deals that were filling yet inexpensive, paid him no mind. A man dipped his fry into some ketchup. A girl laughed at her boyfriend’s joke and placed her hand on his arm. An older woman waved for the attention of the waitstaff, presumably to ask for a refill. Kylo breathed out a near-silent sigh of relief that he had remained, for all intents and purposes, invisible. 

Across from him, however, Phasma squirmed in her seat. The young PR representative had not wanted to be the one to break bad news to the acting Head of Operations of First Order Records, and yet she had drawn the shortest straw amongst a collective of her colleagues and a couple of the interns, which led her to her current position: telling Kylo Ren that Armitage Hux had completely and totally flown off the handle. She threw her hands up in the air as if to say “don’t shoot the messenger!” and looked up at the much taller man anxiously, bracing herself for his next words.

They weren’t pleasant. “You mean to say that despite knowing full well that his audience largely consists of high-school aged girls, he took the stage while inebriated and said… what he said? Are you sure that’s what he said?”

Phasma winced. “It’s all over YouTube, sir,” she eked out. And it was - that morning, videos from the night before had taken the Internet by storm. Armitage Hux - known to his gaggles of admiring teenage fans as Armie - had been signed by First Order Records earlier that year. His popularity online had been a major selling point to the label, but they were more impressed by the fact that beyond his sugar-sweet voice, he produced all his own music. Bouncy, electronic beats accompanied his lyrics about crushes and cars and having fun with friends. He had admitted in one of his initial meetings with the label that he rolled his eyes at the subject matter sometimes, and that deep down he missed playing punk rock covers with his band in high school, but that frankly, a young, zealous fanbase with hearts as big as their parents’ wallets was more apt to pay the bills. Nobody could argue with that logic. The deal was signed, and by summer, Armie was selling out arena-sized shows.

The night before, though, he had consumed - well, they didn’t know what, but  _ something _ before the show, as was evidenced by the video footage of him stumbling onto stage as confetti and balloons fell from the roof above him, gyrating against the mic stand, and greeting the crowd with a much-too-enthusiastic “what’s up, you pretty bitches? Take your fucking pants off!”

Phasma spoke once more, nervously twirling a strand of her thick, silvery hair around one finger. “Sir, should we do a press conference? Have him apologize, acknowledge the behavior was inappropriate - the works?”

Kylo grunted. He couldn’t imagine exhibiting such behavior in public, much less in what was technically a professional setting, as performing was Hux’s job. Kylo certainly wasn’t above having a drink or three on the harder days; he had acquired a liking for top-shelf bourbon and often used the dark elixir to calm his heart rate after spending time in his garage, punching and screaming, but such an outward display of intoxication and belligerence - it was unfathomable to him. He finally broke his own train of thought with another short, tight outburst. “No - no, this just can’t happen!” he exclaimed, raising his voice almost to the point of yelling. 

He blinked, reacclimating himself with his surroundings, and realized that their timid, young waitress had approached the table: a girl of no more than twenty-five, with golden hair tied behind her head in three tight buns and luminous eyes of the same color. She took an awkward step back, as if hoping to shrink into her surroundings. “I - I’m sorry; should I just bring the check, then?” she stuttered, her quiet voice barely piercing the din of clatters and conversation around them.

Quickly, Kylo regained his composure and turned to their waitress. “Ma’am, I apologize for my outburst. The conversation at hand caused me to become distracted, and I had no intention of being rude. If you might be able to procure two more glasses of ice water for my companion and myself before we pay, that would be lovely. Thank you,” he said smoothly. In front of him, he watched the girl - Rey, her red-and-white checkered name tag read - relax as she seemed to correct her previous perception of him and decide that he was not a total jerk. Her shoulders loosened, and her thin arms hung more freely at her sides, dropping from where she had drawn them across her chest in an anxious, protective stance. To his side, Phasma relaxed as well. This was more like the Kylo Ren she knew - polite, perhaps to the point of being overly formal, and completely put-together in his mannerisms. 

Rey nodded, the motion causing her necklace to catch the light. It was a simple silver chain with a small charm depicting the silhouette of a guitar, and it complemented her equally simple outfit of faded skinny jeans and a dull-colored flannel atop her yellow Alliance Burgers t-shirt. “Right away, sir,” she said, the barest hint of a smile gracing her face as she turned away to fulfill his order.

Kylo turned back to Phasma, his expression all business, with any traces of his previous loss of control long gone. He felt the gears in his mind begin to turn as they normally did - he had fished more than his fair share of big-name artists out of PR disasters, and despite his anger and exasperation at Hux’s behavior, he realized that the situation was nothing he couldn’t handle. It was one of hundreds, and he had seen much more famous artists do much more deplorable things and continue to rake in hundreds of thousands of dollars in record sales as if nothing had ever happened.

Still, he knew that he would have a long, productive conversation about this one with his punching bag later that night.

“A simple apology will not suffice; not when so much of his audience is young enough that their parents can tightly control which media they are allowed to consume. We will need to show the public that Hux is making a tangible commitment to change his behavior. I need you to research reputable rehabilitation facilities in the area. Tomorrow you will tell me which one we ought to check him into, and provide me with a draft of a press release on the matter.” He left off there, with no indication that he would tack on an “is that alright?” or “can you do that?” It was alright, and she would do it. Kylo’s word was law at the label, ever since he had taken over many of their CEO, Snoke’s, duties as he had fallen ill in his old age. He knew it, Phasma knew it; everybody knew it.

“Yes, sir,” Phasma answered, tucking the hair she had tousled earlier back behind her ears. She scribbled a couple of lines in her notebook before closing it and returning it to her backpack. The conversation was over, Phasma knew - her boss was nothing if not concise, and there was nothing more to be discussed between the present moment and the next morning when she would leave a manila folder with the typed press release and a brochure of whichever rehab facility she would deem best for their rampaging, drugged-out superstar.

Rey brought out the ice waters that Kylo had requested, setting them on the table gently before flitting away, and the pair sipped on them in silence as Kylo drew his phone from his pocket to check e-mails and Phasma nibbled on some of the fries that had long since gotten cold sometime in the midst of the many items which she had discussed with him over lunch.

Kylo deleted a couple of spam messages before opening one from an associate at the label, asking about his plan of action in regards to Hux. He tapped out a quick reply - “under control” - and sent it. Then, setting his phone face down on the table, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he allowed himself to become grounded in his setting. Ice cubes clinked into glasses. Chairs scraped against the floor. A bell rang from the kitchen, then a voice followed - “thirty-six up!” The smell of fryer oil tickled his nose. Restaurants like this were not typically a place where one could find a man like Kylo Ren; he typically much preferred classier establishments wherein he could wine and dine a potential client with provisions that hadn’t been drenched in hot oil in order to become edible. However, when the e-mail he received from Phasma in the morning informed him that they had a lot to cover during their brief lunch hour meeting, he opted for someplace that was convenient in terms of location, and Alliance was walking distance from the office. He briefly considered the exorbitant caloric intake of his lunch, and decided that the night’s workout would need to be longer than usual. He had burgers and belligerence to work out of his system.

His watch beeped, rousing him from his thoughts. “12:45,” he intoned to Phasma, who snapped upright at the sound of his voice. “Time to go.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, gathering her things and rising from her seat. 

Kylo was nothing if not punctual, and with that being said, his tight lunch schedule did not allow him time to wait for Rey to bring their check to the table. However, he knew full well that the meal had been well within his range of affordability, and wordlessly, he fished a fifty dollar bill out of his wallet, confident that it would cover both of their lunches and then some. He returned his wallet to his pocket, rose to his feet - he dwarfed Phasma with his height, even with the shiny high heels she wore on a daily basis - and the pair departed. 

The blistering heat of the July sun directly overhead caused Kylo mild discomfort, but it was nothing compared to the storm in his head. Though he had passed most of the trifling duties of the disaster down to Phasma, he knew that he would face a lot of heat in the days to come as major news outlets and independent reporters alike would demand answers regarding the circumstances of Hux’s breakdown. He was bracing himself for a call from Snoke at any moment - yes, even from his hospital bed, the old man had a chokehold on the label, and on Kylo. He figured the old man must have some degree of confidence in his performance in order to have left him in charge, but hated the way he was grilled and berated and questioned over every decision, even those of which he was most sure. He clenched his teeth, coaxing his anger and anxiety to leave his system before he had to put his cool, uncaring face back on at the office. 

Kylo Ren did _not_ like the day that he was having. 

Perhaps it would have been made better if he had stuck around at the restaurant for just a moment longer, and still been at the table when the pretty young waitress with the guitar necklace had brought out his check - and seen that at the very bottom, she had scribbled down her phone number. 


End file.
